


Impulse

by Nefhiriel



Series: White Collar - Ancient 'Verse [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Ancient Rome, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth's first encounter with Neal. Neal's first encounter with mercy. (Ancient world AU. Prologue to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/202089">Worth</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impulse

**Author's Note:**

> See [Worth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/202089) for 'verse notes. Thanks to my wonderful beta, Imbecamiel!

“Do you wish me to have a litter brought, my Lady?”

“No...no, Danato. Let us go at once.” The privacy and rest a litter provided would have been welcome, but now that she had made up her mind to leave Elizabeth was eager to do so without delay.

She had been standing under the heat of the midday sun for nearly an hour amid the press of contenders for the auction. Sweat, and dust, and the smell of her own perfume all combined to make her head ache.

Danato used the advantage of his impressive bulk and height to shoulder his way through the crowd, creating a path for her.

“Ah, Danato...” she sighed, as they broke into the main thoroughfare again, freeing her from the crush of bodies. “It is very distasteful. _Yes_ ,” she responded to the quiet look of amusement that crossed the slave's weathered face, “even now I find it so. Perhaps I should have let Peter come instead—and he will no doubt _frown_ at me a great deal for being so indecisive, especially when he wants me to find some particular companionship before he is called away again. But it _is_ a very personal matter.”

Danato had been a servant in their household almost as long as she and Peter had been married, and though he spoke little himself, he had always been a trustworthy confidant to whom she felt at ease expressing fears small and great.

Elizabeth would have continued speaking, but at that moment Danato—striding a protective step ahead—stiffened.

“What is it?” she asked. She could hear nothing of special note beyond the impersonal noises of the busy streets.

Danato, however, was listening to something in particular, and frowning in the direction of the alleyway that was ahead and to their right. A cart rattled past, and he shook his head. “It is nothing, my Lady. Please, let us go this way.” He nodded to their left.

“But this is the most direct route home.” Elizabeth was already walking straight ahead as she spoke.

She knew Danato meant well, that he was only intent on keeping her safe. But she was too weary for any circumnavigation today. Danato was always keeping her on the busier streets, in the reputable neighborhoods, but right now the quiet stretch in front of them—angling off, behind the market square where they had just been—looked much more inviting than the crowded street Danato would have led her down.

“Please, my Lady, I think it would be better—”

“—I have always felt entirely secure so long as you are with me, Danato,” she insisted.

Danato did not look pleased at the compliment, or reassured by her trust, but he obeyed and took his post walking slightly ahead of her again. He turned an unfriendly face on the world, as if to give it fair warning that it should not interfere with him or his charge.

Then she heard what must have been caught by Danato's keener hearing, when they had paused at the crossroads: the sound of fists hitting flesh, repeatedly. A smothered cry of pain. Growls and curses.

Danato placed himself between her and the alleyway as they passed—but he could not block the sight entirely. What she saw made Elizabeth draw up short, inhaling sharply.

“My Lady, _please_...” Danato pleaded. “We should not linger here.”

These were the buildings where they kept the slaves between auctions. Elizabeth registered the fact vaguely, along with Danato's words, but could not for the moment tear her attention away from the beating being inflicted upon the huddled figure on the ground. It was not the first time she'd seen a slave beaten, of course. But there was a brutality behind the blows and kicks being landed that made it clear the worth of the slave's life was, in this case, considered insignificant.

The slave made a feeble attempt to rise. The man towering above him brought the heel of his foot down, hard, on the slave's forearm. The slave collapsed again with choked noise of pain.

Elizabeth started forward instinctively, but Danato was gently resisting her passage, an arm across the way. He did it with the authority of a trusted servant, who knew his master would expect him to do whatever it took to keep his wife from harm.

“My Lady, there is nothing—”

“— _Do_ something, Danato,” she interrupted, leaving no room for argument. “Do something now, before he is killed.”

She was prepared to advance upon the situation on her own, and Danato clearly sensed this, realized he had no choice.

“You, there! Stop!” He had an impressive bellow, which was immediately effective.

However, as she approached in Danato's shadow, the man squinted up, growling, “What right do you have to order me?”

Elizabeth stepped forward, placing a still hand on the bristling Danato's arm. “Why are you so intent on killing this slave? If you have no use for him, then sell him to someone who does.”

“I already _tried_ that. The merchants couldn't find a soul who would take him.” He gave the slave another kick in the side. “He doesn't _want_ to sell, that's why—hangs his head, and refuses to eat, and _means_ to look worthless. Just to spite me. Just to keep from turning me a little profit.”

Here the man broke off here into such vicious swearing that Elizabeth had to bite back some indecent remarks of her own. She did know a few words of her own, too. Enough, certainly, to surprise Danato—who was looking close to breaking point at this new outrage to his mistress.

“This is the Lady Burke.” Danato's voice was steely, his large hands fisted at his sides. “You will address her with respect.”

Elizabeth came to a decision. She declared with dignity and purpose: “I am going to purchase this slave from you.”

 _That_ , at least, was enough to buy the man's attention. In the end, he eagerly took a the coins Elizabeth offered him, only making a token attempt to drive the price up, as if afraid to push his luck. Then he left them to make what they would of the crumpled figure on the ground.

Elizabeth crouched near the slave. Danato made precautionary noises, no doubt more out of habit than anything.

“Really, Danato,” she brushed aside his overbearing concern fondly. “He isn't some wild dog.”

Maybe not. But, of course, she didn't know what he _was_ , either, other than broken and unmoving—and now officially _her_ concern.

“He was a thief. You saw his record, my Lady.” Danato's unease was clear, and overlaid by discrete disapproval. Undoubtedly, he was already wondering what he would say to his master to explain his own weak-willed role in this fiasco.

Elizabeth hadn't missed the fact, nor how eager the slave's former owner had been gloss over that point, rolling up the papers to hand to her almost before she'd had the chance to read anything.

But a thief was not a murder.

“He's _hurt_.” Elizabeth reached out, tentatively, fingers barely brushing the tangle of slightly curly dark hair—but even this was enough to bring him back from whatever place he'd been lost in.

He started, pushing up with his left arm, cradling the right to his chest, panting raggedly with the effort. He scrabbled backwards blindly to get away from her, only to start even worse when he backed into Danato's legs. Staring up at the large slave's impassive expression for one paralyzed heartbeat, the next moment he was trying to stand, posture full of intent to flee—and legs shaking like a newborn colt's.

Danato had only to grab the back of his tunic and hold on. He did so not un-gently, but firmly, with a questioning glance at Elizabeth.

Before Elizabeth could say anything to bring order to the situation, however, Danato found an unexpected fight on his hands, the slave struggling against his hold with some hidden reserve of energy, suddenly unleashed in an uncoordinated, frenzied panic.

It was a feeble attempt at best, comically calling into contrast the size difference between the two. Danato looked more bemused than anything as he simply tightened his grip on the slave's tunic.

“Please, don't be frightened—” Elizabeth began.

But before she could say more, the younger slave tried to twist his way free. With a yelp of surprised pain as he jarred his injured arm in the process, the fight went out of him as suddenly as it had come. His eyes rolled back, lids drifting shut.

Danato caught him under the arms before he could slump to the ground. Elizabeth approached, for the first time getting her first close look at the face of the slave she'd just purchased. Only she realized then that she _had_ seen him before—in the auction. The defeated-looking one, with the dull eyes and stooped shoulders. She never would have imagined _that_ slave had any fight left in him at all.

“He was only frightened, Danato,” she said quietly, knowing what he must be thinking after that display of resistance. “He was only confused, and hurt, and trying to escape from being beaten to death.” She believed what she was saying—had _seen_ the panicked look in his eyes. It had been panic, she was certain, not violence.

Danato grunted, deferring to her assessment, if not agreeing. He took it as a responsibility to be suspicious, _especially_ when she was not.

“Can you carry him?”

In response, Danato silently did so, picking the slave up easily: one arm supporting his legs, and the other his neck. He raised an eyebrow in surprise as he tested the weight in his arms—whether it was heavier or lighter than he had expected, he did not say.

The slave's left arm that was flopping limply out, palm up; Elizabeth reached out to adjust it across his chest. She paused to look at the pale, upturned face a moment longer. In unconsciousness, there was a boyishness to the features that even the angular jaw and hollow cheeks could not negate. He was much younger than she'd first guessed.

She sighed, inwardly, wondering what might have become of this one if there had been no one to intercede. Most likely an unmarked grave, if he had been even so fortunate as that. Life was cruel, and she was continually reminded of that cruelty despite her husband's attempts to shelter her from it. Sometimes, there was nothing you could do to change that reality, even though wealth and good name supported you. But, sometimes, wealth and a good name _were_ enough, and you could do something. That was why she couldn't keep her eyes closed, even if her husband meant to spare her, and even if it were less painful.

She hoped Peter could understand that.


End file.
